


First Impressions

by WatteauYouDoing



Series: Long Live the Queen [1]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Other, Polyamory, Suicidal Thoughts, but there's jazz and magitech and stuff, fantasy AU where monsters never were put underground, gender neutral reader, pre-relationship stuff, though this fic deals with how everyone meets so, war veteran reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-06-03 03:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6595717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WatteauYouDoing/pseuds/WatteauYouDoing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, a war-torn soldier stumbles into a bar, and a nosy fire elemental inadvertently saves their life. </p><p>One day, a scientist desperately flees his sordid past and, by pure chance, he finds shelter in the unlikeliest of places.</p><p>One day, two innocent bystanders are about to become causalities in a bloody revolution, and everything comes full circle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fire and Steel - Part 1

The door thudded roughly behind you, and you didn’t meet the gaze of anyone who spared a glance your way. Mechanically, with dull, plodding movements, you tromped across the floor varnished with resin and alcohol, pursuing your goal with night-robotic diligence.

You wanted to get very, very drunk.

You carelessly thunked a bag of coins onto the bar, settling down on a stool before looking up at the tender: a man crafted from winding trails of flickering fire, sharply dressed and predominantly featureless aside from the black framed glasses perched on his face. For a moment, you were reminded of a completely different flame - one that burned, consumed, devoured the world without a care for innocence or justice - but... no. It was a momentary illusion.

No, he was something completely different, something controlled, restrained, like an elegant dancer or a warm, caring hearth. His fire was a far cry from shattered, charred cobbles and the bombs of war you were so familiar with.

He didn’t speak, but you had the distinct impression he was asking for your order.

“Just get me drunk,” you gruffly instructed as you slid the entire bag of money over. The vagueness of your request gave him pause, and, having some sympathy for it, you pointed at a square-based lilac bottle sitting a little to your left behind the counter. “Whatever that is. It’s pretty.”

You detected a flicker of amusement from him, particularly once he settled a hand on the bottle’s neck and looked at you to confirm your choice.

“Yeah, that one. Straight, mixed - I don’t really give a shit.” You waved at him vaguely, and he nodded once more before snagging a glass and pouring it full with a flourish. He added in a dash of this, a splash of that, swirled it around - and clunked it down in front of you, a spicy smelling smoke ghosting off around the rim.

You picked it up, feeling the cool material underneath your calloused fingers. As you brought it to your mouth, you noticed him watching you - and you tipped the edge lightly in his direction before downing it straight. The warming effect struck you as soon as it hit your tongue. It was strong, spiced, with a vibrant burn as it went down your throat, and you knew that vaguely smug looking man expected you to gag.

Of course, you’d kept down substances so strong that they’d make petroleum look like delicately bodied wine, so it was easy to deny him the satisfaction of seeing you choke. You drained the glass dry, plopped it on the wooden counter…

...And you _would_ have wiped your mouth with your other hand - but, you’d been robbed of that ability, hadn’t you? At that realization, any amusement you might have felt crumbled into dust. It was funny, how you kept forgetting.

Keeping your eyes on the counter, you pushed the glass back over to him, silently asking for a refill. You heard him take it, but he didn’t move - remaining there in front of you, watching. You waved at him vaguely before drawing the gold-trimmed cape further around yourself. “Just get me whatever. Same thing, different thing, don’t care. I’ll pay you regardless.”

For a moment, there was only a crackle of fire, and then you heard him move, the cloth of his waistcoat shifting as he mixed you something else. You waited, curling and uncurling your fingers as if that somehow helped.

Your only comforting thought at this point was that it’d be over soon. You’d have your last drink, and then you’d join your friends above the mountain.

For a moment, you wondered what kind of star you’d become, with a soul as strange as yours.

The clink of your glass being returned to you disturbed you from your thoughts, and you only took a brief look at its content before bringing it to your lips. The sweetness surprised you, and, raising it to eye-level, you peered at the strange, pastel-purple mixture before flicking your gaze up to the bartender who was…

...Still watching you? Didn’t have have other customers to serve?

What, did he want you to compliment him? Was he really so desperate for praise that he’d seek it out from someone like you?

Or - no. You realized it when you noticed that purple bottle again, standing out against the auburn wood of the shelf.  “...Seriously? Great Mother, you’re a dweeb.”

The man shrugged, smiling - ah, you could pick out some facial expressions now, if you looked close. Yellow twisting amidst the orange of the fire, slight dots of red that sort of looked like eyebrows... mild, yes, but still present. You were glad he was proud of his color-matching work, you supposed, although it was sort of wasted on you.

“It’s pretty,” you somehow found yourself saying before you took another drink.

Ugh. Your bastardization of a heart was too soft.

The way his fire flickered slightly at that warmed your heart. Ugh. Why the hell? You decided to do what you did best, that is, manage your problems by drinking them into oblivion. You took this one slower; the previous one was starting to hit you now, clouding up your thoughts and making your legs feel a bit tingly, and you didn't want to dive too deep from the get-go.

You felt the bartender’s attention divert from you as someone called for him. He slid down the counter with a controlled movement, and - now alone - you submerged yourself in the shifting notes of conversation around you. As you listened, you caught scraps of this, pieces of that - and, ultimately, it reminded you of how much of an outsider you were in this city. How much you didn’t belong.

Jobs. Families. Talk of the war, talk of the government, talk of neighbors and friends and -

You sighed, staring into the purple liquid filling your glass, and drank.

And drank...

And after the bartender gave you another drink, you drank some more, and it was after number eight that he cut you off.

It was with silence, as he conducted all of his other business - and a glass of water, clinked very delicately before you. You stared up at him - that stern expression, complete with crossed arms - and you snickered, currently at the higher end of one of your oscillating moods. “Seriously? What are you, my mother? If I wanted water, I woulda asked.”

He gestured to it with a flick of his fingers, indicating that he wasn’t going to be taking any of your shit.

“Man, I’m paying you to get me on my ass, not baby me. But - whatever. Bottoms up.” You swiped it, downing it in a single, large gulp. Interestingly enough, he looked away as you did so.

You wondered for a moment if water bothered him - but only for a moment. You had other things on your mind.

“Happy now?"

Apparently not, because he lingered there, staring down at you instead of getting you another fucking drink. “What’s that look for, huh?” You asked somewhat belligerently, resting your chin on your hand. “What, worried I’m gonna start a fight, or somethin’? I know I look scary, but I’m just here to get plastered in peace. Promise.”

He continued to look down at you, a finger tapping on his arm as if he was thinking.

“...Really." Your laugh rang hollow and bitter to your ears. “I’m just some dumb asshole in here to drown their problems. You’ve seen it a million times, I’m sure.”

There was a slight click as he adjusted his glasses, and you mumbled, “I’m not even really a person, anyway, so there’s no need t’fret.”

You looked up to see him eyeing you quizzically, and you chuckled softly, shaking your head. It was even more miserable sound than the last, and, well, it looked like you were dropping down to rock bottom once more.

Maybe you should hurry things up a bit. “Hey. Just… give me a shot of whiskey, alright? Then I’ll call it a night.”

He paused, then, and after a long moment of thought, he nodded. It seems he was willing to do you this last service.

You contemplated the glass for a long time, studying the amber liquid in the light. The bartender - heh, y’know, maybe you ought to have asked for his name at some point - watched you, and you heard clanks and clatters from your right. Somewhat curious - or, perhaps it was your training in action, demanding that you know everything about your surroundings - you looked behind you. There were some men on the stage, hustling and bustling about.

Well. It didn’t concern you. Turning again, you downed the shot, then set it top-down on the counter.

For a moment, you just stared at the flickering red of the dull bar light. The taste, the smell, it struck you with a memory, of a woman putting her arm around your shoulder and saying, _makes you feel like a dragon, doesn’t it? Like next you’re going to be letting out great puffs of fire’n’smoke._

Your eyes misted over and you suddenly stood, placing your palm down on the counter. For a moment, you wobbled - your head light and fuzzy - but you got ahold of yourself, and shoved the bag of money over to the bartender.

“Keep the change,” you said, knowing that where you were going, you wouldn’t need things like money.

Things like that didn’t matter at the bottom of the river.

As you turned to leave - you heard a rustle of cloth and felt something tug at your cape. Baffled, you looked over - and saw him, there, that man made of fire, leaning over the counter with a fistful of fabric in his hand. He’d been trying to grab you by your arm, you realized, but --

Haha, joke’s on him. He’d picked the wrong side to do that.

He stared at the empty space where the limb should be, and then looked up, meeting your gaze. The world seemed to still in that moment - just you and him, looking at each other, your eyebrows raised in puzzlement.

It was getting kind of hard to keep yourself together, so you kind of wanted to get to the point. “What, need t’count the money? ‘S more’n enough.”

He shook his head, then -- “Stay.”

You blinked. The entire night, and that was the first thing he’d said to you.

His voice was… as warm as he looked, filled with pops of fire and crackling embers. Deep, peaty - like the whisky you’d just had - and, most of all, soft. You weren’t even sure you heard him correctly over the clattering on the stage and the chatter of the bar. “Stay?”

“Here.” He paused, then, and tipped his head in the direction of the stage.

Baffled, you looked over - and that’s when it hit you. Those fancily dressed monsters, that woman seated by the piano…

They were musicians. And, as you watched, they began to play.

It was - how to put it…

Different from anything you’d ever heard before.

Ah, you’d heard bar music, certainly, in taverns you’d passed through as the king sent you out according to his whims. Folk music, mostly, the sort the farmers knew - the kind that told the old stories, of forbidden loves and kelpies that drowned you in the deeps. Certainly, you’d heard tunes both lively and bright - stories of dances, songs of war - but nothing quite like _this,_ boisterous and brassy and _demanding_ , with dips and tremors and a popping drum beat that in your already addled state, completely stunned you.

And the piano - you’d never heard one played so _aggressively._ Perhaps it was simply because you were an ill-cultured rube, but you’d heard of the piano being a thing of _sonatas_ , of _concertos,_ not… this.

This.

What the hell did you call this?

“Jazz,” you heard behind you, as you watched a lizardlike, red monster pluck the strings of a huge instrument in the back.

You looked back at the man who was still grabbing onto your cape, the gold trim shining in the warm glow he gave off. And - slowly - you sat back down, shifting your gaze between him and the stage.

It was captivating. It was exhilarating. If you had the feet for dancing - or maybe even just an unburdened heart - you might have joined the couples twirling and whirling in front of the stage, layered skirts and shining bangles catching the light. What struck you most of all, though, was the feathered man at the forefront of the stage - colored bright and pink like some sort of tropical bird - playing the trumpet like it was an extension of his soul.

It was… genuinely beautiful.

In a different life -

If you’d been a different person -

...Maybe you could have played music like that…

As you watched, you obediently drank the water that the bartender kept offering you - and, eventually, he let you nurse something with a bit more kick.

All your plans for the night had been forgotten as you sat there, watching gleaming lights, twisting bodies, and - occasionally, the flicker of the man behind yo-

Frowning, you leaned on the counter and tilted your head back until he was in view. “Hey,” you asked, trying to catch his attention away from the glass he was polishing. “Oi, you. Whas’yer name?”

He paused, staring you, and - after a long moment - said, “Grillby.”

“‘Kay.” A pause. You closed your eyes. Whoooo-boy, okay, maybe you’d finally hit your fun-time limit. Not that you’d really come here to have fun, but, well, you kinda were, at this point. “Nice place, Grillby.”

He crackled a bit in response, and - somehow - despite the liveliness of the music… it ended up lulling you to sleep there on the counter.

(Grillby had no idea that, in that evening, he had irrevocably changed the entire fate of the country of Ebott.)


	2. Fire and Steel - Part 2

You dreamed, as per usual, of the war and all the things associated with it.

Blood. Fear. Smoke, filth, dirt, broken bones and screaming flesh; you dreamed of shattering men beneath your sword and razing villages to the ground. You dreamed of the retreat being called at the outskirts of the great merchant city of the spiders, Crestone - and how, as the bomb fell, you all unanimously realized that had never been an option in the first place.

It took a long few minutes to calm yourself down, gasping for breath and clutching at your sweat-stained shirt. You didn’t recognize your surroundings, nor could you remember how you’d gotten here.  It was a bedroom of some variety - not particularly ornate, though you couldn't comment, as it was far better fare than anything you were used to. Well kept, with nice, tamely-hued sheets that didn’t itch on your skin and pillows that were probably - given their feel - filled with cotton or… or maybe even _feathers,_ though you sort of wanted to puke when you thought about sleeping on something so fancy.

...Actually, maybe that was just the hangover. Whoops.

The general impersonality of the room’s decor lead you to think this was a boarding room of some variety - perhaps you’d ended up in an inn or in someone’s guest room? Grunting, you pushed yourself onto the floor, noticing someone had removed - or possibly stolen - your shoes. Your armor, too, leaving you in your trousers and tunic, which was…

...Unnerving. You felt profoundly under-dressed.

A problem easily solved, though, because after you made a quick sweep of the room, you found your things neatly arranged underneath a small table by the window.

A lot of tasks had become something of a production since losing your arm - such as… doing up buckles! And putting on gloves! And, most annoyingly….

_Tying your fucking shoes._

It was as you were swearing over bootlaces that you heard a rhythmic thudding on the door. Blinking, you stared at it for a few moments, and it took another tentative round of tapping for you to realize, oh yeah, knocking. That was a thing people did.

“Uhhh,” you called out, releasing the string that you had in your mouth. It dropped onto the table that your foot rested on. “I’m not naked, or anything.”

A pause, then the door cracked open, revealing a handsome man made from fire -- _Grillby,_ your mind supplied as your memories started to return. He had a tray in his hands, but that kind of melted away as other things occupied the forefront of your mind.

“Holy fucking shit, why are you so well-dressed? It’s like, shitfuck early in the morning.“ You paused, leaning over in your chair and peering out the window. “Actually, it’s almost noon, ain’ it. Well, my point still stands - are you just a dapper-dandy twenty-four seven?”

Grillby stared at you for a few moments, and then crackled softly as he shrugged in reply. He really was pristine, though, with his deep well-pressed waistcoat, sparkling leather shoes, crisp white gloves, and the prettiest bow-tie you’d ever seen.

Hell, he even smelled nice, too, you easily took in his nutty cologne as he leaned over to set the tray on the table you were sitting it. Somewhat embarrassed, you removed your dirty boot from his furniture, planting the heel on the very edge of the chair as you hunched over yourself and continued trying to tie your _damnable laces, shit,_ you should really invest in something that buckled.

The food perched on the metal tray was just as pretty as him. You spared a brief glance at the array of breakfast items - bacon, eggs, toast with, holy _shit, jam_ , and a perfectly clean, white mug filled with some of the best looking coffee you’d ever seen - way better than that sewage that you’d all had to water down to make last.

You felt your mouth filling up with saliva at the sight, but, nope, you figured he’d just popped by to properly kick you out before taking breakfast to one of his actual guests. Firmly, you looked away, and -- shit, the loop slipped again.

Suddenly, you felt a hand on yours, and, with a gentle motion, Grillby nudged your fingers away from your boot as he lowered himself to his knees before you. In shock, bafflement, and a good deal of embarrassment, you stared at him as he started to help you tie your shoes.

“Hey, shit, what’re you -- “ Reflexively, you sort of _kicked_ at him, trying to get him away - you weren’t some toddling scrap of flesh that needed mommy to tie their _shoes_ , you were a fucking adult. Of course, with a snap, you realized you were kicking a perfectly nice man in the face and - “ _Shit,_ I’m sorry, what the fuck, you surprised me -- _ahh, shit._ ” You gave up, quickly retracting your boot as a rushed jumble of words tumbled out of your mouth.

Without giving him time to reply, you reached out and rubbed your thumb against his cheek, trying to rub away the dirt. The thought that, _uhhh, the man made of fire might_ burn _you_ didn’t cross your mind until a few seconds in, but hey, your fingertips were just peachy, so apparently that was nothing to worry about.

He was pleasantly warm, actually, and you tried to be gentle as you scrubbed. He didn’t deserve having your big, inelegant paws mucking up his perfect face, after all. “Shit, I’m _real_ sorry,” you said once more as you corrected the tilt of his glasses. He was just kind of… staring up at you.

You were about to apologize _again_ when you were stopped by a low, crackling chuckle emerging from his mouth. His shoulders shook, and he bent his head, muffling the sound with his hand. This struck you as a bit of a travesty, so you tapped him on the forehead and drawled, “...What’re you doin’ that for, eh? You’ve got a nice laugh. Seems a shame to sweep it under the rug like that.”

He looked up at you again, composing himself and shaking his head. He adjusted his glasses - apparently, you hadn’t done a proper enough job - and then gestured to your shoelaces, giving you an inquisitive look.

Your expression dropped to a scowl. “I can darn-diddly-fuckin’ well tie them myself - er.” You paused. “Fuck, look at me, swearing in front of a gentleman-- _fuck_ I did it agai-- _ffff…_ ” You winced, wiping your sweat covered palm across your face.

Hungover you was not really good with manners. ...Actually, that was just a problem for you in general.

Once more, he laughed - but he tamed the sound quickly enough, shaking his head slightly with a sympathetic expression on his face. He gestured once more to your shoes, though, continuing to look up at you.

“Seriously. I got this. It’s a pain, but… I don’t need to be babied, or anything.”

At this, finally, he spoke. “Wouldn’t you rather get this finished with so you can have breakfast?”

That made your mind go blank. “...Whu… What?”

Grillby gestured to the tray. You stared at that _glistening_ meat and those _perfectly curved_  sunny-side eggs. Gawking, you choked out, “This is for _me?”_

You looked back down to find Grillby already doing up the laces of your boots. _“Hey!”_ You whined, face flush with embarrassment - but there wasn’t a lot you can do without kicking him in the face and... you didn’t really want to repeat that. So, you had to concede your loss.

Crafty fucker.

Once finished, he stood, looking at you and gesturing to the food. You still couldn’t quite believe it - and you stared at the plate like it was some sort of desert mirage. “S-Seriously? Holy shi-....schnitzel, _why?_ ”

Grillby seemed faintly bemused. “You’re a guest,” he crackled softly.

A pause. “I mean. If you can call some ass -- “ You paused. “...Bucket.” Another pause. That didn’t make it better. “Who fell asleep at your bar a guest.”

“...You paid.”

You thought back to the bag of coins. _Oh right._ You supposed you… sort of did? Like, not explicitly for this, but, hey, you didn’t mind, you’d meant to go kill yourself and leave it all to him, so, like, no skin off your nose or anything.

Attention turning back to your plate, you asked for a final time - wanting to be _crystal clear_ on this - “I can really have this?”

Grillby nodded, and, well, shit. You grabbed a fork and did what you were restraining yourself from this entire time, i. e. inhaling the entire plate like a tobacco addict who’d just been offered their first smoke in a week.

“Holy _fuck_ thish is _so fuckin’ good,_ ” you said, your mouth filled to the brim with eggs. A pause. Oh _great mother of the mountains,_ _you were_ _such a incompetent rube._ You stared at Grillby in something like horror, and forced yourself to swallow. “Um. It’s. Real nice. Compliments to the chef.”

Grillby took a slight bow, and you stared incomprehendingly. Then. “You’re the chef?”

He nodded.

“Hot _diggity,_ this is good! What’re you doin’ down in the lower city? You should be at the peak of the mountain makin’ sausages for _lords_ or something!”

This seemed to amuse him, given his expression, but there was a hint of skepticism to it, You sort of wanted to fight him on it - but that would mean taking time to _not_ eat, and, well, you were kind of being ruled by your stomach at this point. This time, though, you took it slower, taking time to actually do things like _chew_ and _taste._

Grillby sat down in the chair across from you during this, watching you quietly. You were too busy consuming to realize how odd this was - but when you were almost done, you hesitated, and then looked up to meet his gaze. “...You don’t got stuff you oughta be doin?”

“I wanted to see how you were,” he said simply. Man, this guy really was a fellow of few words.

“...Why?” You squinted.

He shrugged lightly. Apparently, that was all you were getting.

“Well…” A pause. “Jeez, thanks for puttin’ me up for the night. I know you got paid, but, like… Was awful swell of you to drag my drunk ass to bed, I suppose. I… didn’t do anything stupid, did I?”

He shook his head. It was the truth - all you’d done was enjoy the music. And… maybe that captivated, enraptured expression you’d worn that night was the reason he was doing all of this. Someone who appreciated jazz _that much…_

Someone who looked like they’d seen the angels themselves, that night…

...Well. It was a lovely expression. Resting his cheek on his palm, Grillby continued to watch as you ate. Your hair was very striking in the light.

Shockingly enough, as you were finishing up, he spoke unprompted. “...What are you going to do?”

“Do?” You set down your fork, looking up at him. “Oh, you mean -- ….like… am I going to head out after this?”

He nodded.

“Yeah, don’t worry yourself none, I’ll be out of your metaphorical hair soon enough. Don’t got much shit to my name, since I got - “ You paused, staring at the table. Shit, what _were_ you going to do? The king had tossed you - _all_ of you - aside like broken toys he didn’t want to play with anymore. Gods teeth, those fuckers had put it so nicely, too. _Being released from your duties,_ they’d said. _Due to your glorious service to the crown, you’re now permitted to find your own path in life!_

Yeah, like, what the shit were you going to do? You’d been in their service since they’d _made_ you, and then they ushered you out - like you were too disgusting to even look at, anymore (in a way, you supposed you were.)

...You’d tried. You had. But you were just a broken construct - couldn’t even tie your _own shoes._ No one had wanted to.

...Hah. You could still make good on your earlier plans to --

Something interrupted you - the feeling of your arm being tapped, and you looked up, meeting Grillby’s inquisitive and worried gaze. Ahh, you’d gone quiet. “Uhh, sorry. I zoned out, there, what was I saying?”

“Since you got…?” He prompted, tilting his head.

Oh. Uh. “Fired, basically," you replied, then you took a moment to look at your arm and snort like an idiot. _F_ _ired! Hah! Hahaha!_

Grillby seemed a little confused, so you shook your head, waving your bizarre action off. “Uhh, anyway, yeah, I’ll buzz off and … do… whatever, I guess. Look for work,” you said lamely, trying to conceal that, honestly, you’d given up on that.

“You could stay here, for now. The rent’s reasonable.”

He flickered quietly across from you, and for a moment you were baffled. “...Business is that bad you want someone like _me_ t’be a tenant?”

His mouth twisted into a frown. but he didn’t say anything in response to your self-depreciation; he simply waited for your reply.

“...Well, uh. I don’t… have a job, as I said,  an’ I’m not sure how I’ll find one. And this is a nice place - I should probably… stay somewhere as cheap as possible.”

Grillby considered this for a few moments. “I would be willing to let you pay me once you found work.”

“Uh. Whuh.” Stare. “Wh. Wh…. _Why?”_

To that - Grillby offered nothing but his _characteristic shrug_ and a simple explanation of, “You like music.”

“Th-- that’s hardly a good reason to-...”

Your unexpected savior gestured to the plate you’d completely polished clean. You understood his silent meaning. If you stayed, _you’d get more food._ Really, really good food. That shut you up right quick.

But… “I can’t take charity. So! Uh! Do you! Got… any work that needs done ‘round the place? I mean, I only got one arm, but, like… I could lift a couple of grown men with it, _easy._ I’m real strong. So… got boxes that need carrying? High places that need dusting? I’m a bit taller than you, so…”

He shook his head, but you weren’t going to take no for an answer here. “Really! You gotta have something that needs doing. Let me help. Please?”

For a moment, he looked at you, sitting there - and… well. You looked so eager to be of help.

He gave in.

 

* * *

 

You… felt better than you had in - ...in… well. Since you’d lost everyone you ever loved and cared about, basically. Which wasn’t to say you were _great_ \- sometimes you just… looked in a mirror and found yourself completely disgusted with what you saw. You knew what was under there, buried under cloth and steel - twisted burns, an amputated limb, and an abomination of a heart stitched together from the souls of numerous dead children.

But helping Grillby around the bar gave you a sense of _agency._ It made you feel like you could do something, and, gosh, it made you feel so warm inside, carrying boxes and barrels and sacks for him, helping him tidy up, fetching things from the basement and, hell, you were pretty handy, you even straightened a shelf that had gone crooked.

You’d needed his help, but… something about him standing there, next to you, the both of you at work was…

So…

Weirdly, dizzyingly nice.

Somehow, you felt content just… being there with him, not saying a word.

Given that, it was an awful shame that everything was ruined when you saw  _them._

They were sitting in a booth a little left of the door, hands steepled and mouth twisted into a _smirk_ , and, gods, your mouth went completely dry. Grillby looked at you, expression puzzled and, with it, _worried,_ but you didn’t notice. Something drew you to that person, to that table, and there was no possible way you could resist it.

It felt like walking to the executioner’s block.

You sat down across from them - this close, you could see their bizarre eyes, the vibrant brown split into four sections by a yellow cross - and the first words out of your mouth were, “He’s changed his mind. He wants us back.”

The Tactician of Many Names laughed softly, bringing the tips of their fingers to their mouth. “You wouldn’t believe that I just wanted to see how you were getting on?”

“...Not really,” you mumbled, dropping your gaze to the table. You’d fought with them. Protected then. Almost died for them - and here you were, terrified of what they were going to say. Sure, being tossed aside like you were _garbage_ had stung - well, more than that - but, you realized now, now that you were about to be forced to go back... that you genuinely didn't want to.

You never wanted to fight in the name of that fucker ever again

You wanted - … you wanted to be _done,_ you’d thought that - maybe, maybe you could be _done…!_

“Well, you’re right, in a way.” They leaned forward, flicking their gaze briefly to the bartender who was watching this with barely-restrained hostility. Hmn. “Except - I’m not here on behalf of the King.”

You froze. “What?”

They lowered their voice, speaking so softly that it was barely a wisp. “We can’t really talk here, but… Aegis… I came here to see how you felt…”

You stared at them as a knife-like smile cut up their face. (How did such a soft, chubby-cheeked person look so  _scary?)_  “...about revenge?”

“What?” You choked, not quite able to believe what you were hearing. “Against -- who?”

“Why, shouldn’t it be obvious?” They laughed, and that sound reminded you that you’d only lost an arm in the devastation that wretched man had ordered.

Many-Names had lost their _wife._

“The Princess approached me with a rather intriguing offer… and… I came to see if you’d be interested in hearing it.”

“Princes... Princess _Toriel?_ I -- “ Panic filled you, choking you. An _offer_. _An offer your_ ass _, they were talking about fucking_ treason, weren't they?

“You don’t have to decide now,” they interrupted. “In fact, you shouldn’t. And - if you genuinely aren’t interested - I’ll get up and leave now, and you’ll never, ever have to see me again. But.” They peered at you. “If satisfying your own hate doesn’t tempt you, then think about this.”

“How long can this country withstand King Dreemurr's rule?”

For a long, long time, you stared at the table. A million thoughts crossed your mind - about how you just wanted to rest, how you wanted it to be over, how you just - you just… you had no idea what you wanted, but it wasn’t more death, more blood, more killing. But then…

It occurred to you.

Weren’t you ready to die already? Weren’t you purposeless already?

And - what they were suggesting - they, the Tactician that had seen the road to victory many, many times…

Maybe… that was purpose enough for you.

Maybe you could follow them one last time.

“...I’ll… go listen, at least, I…” You trailed off, not really certain how to finish your sentence.

It was enough for them, though, and they stood. “Finish your business here, then. I’ll be waiting outside for you.”

You didn’t nod in response - it would have been pointless, since they’d already turned to go. Instead, you looked behind you where Grillby stood there, clearly tense. Seeing that you were finished, he navigated out from behind the bar and approached you, the flames on his head flickering anxiously - though his expression didn’t betray much of his current mood.

“Is everything alright?” He asked, and you couldn’t help but snort.

“Yeah, that was just, uh -- … an old work friend. They… might have a job for me actually, so I’m going to take off for a bit to look into it. If that’s alright?”

Grillby was in no position to say no - not to someone he’d only known a day - so he nodded.

In the coming weeks though, he’d regret letting you leave like that. Letting you turn away - allowing your cape to flutter slightly as you called back over your shoulder, “I’ll be back tonight! Keep my stuff for me?”

Because - because you you _weren’t_ back that night, or any night, and - as the weeks passed, as he lost hope of ever seeing you again - he tucked your bag away in the attic. The coins, too, nestled among your scant possessions - a few books, a small journal, some flowers that he let wilt because he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away.

It was strange - that feeling that persisted, that sensation of having been robbed of something. It was strange how often he dwelled on some nebulous  _could-have-been._

But, after a month, he didn’t have any more time to think about that - for he was far, far more concerned with the revolution that had enveloped the city.


	3. Smoke and Fire Part 1

After years of service to the Crown, Doctor W. D. Gaster finally decided that he was going to quit his job.

Unfortunately for him, the general character of his workplace was, how to say it… _strict_ , with a certain intolerance of quaint notions like disobedience and disloyalty. It would be fair to say that the laboratory had, in the years since his appointment, become Gaster’s home… and not because he was just that dedicated to his job.

No. It was because Doctor W. D. Gaster was not allowed to leave.

At first, it’d been fine; he hadn’t cared. Oh, when he’d shown up in the castle, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, he’d had so much _hope._ So much _promise._ He was going to have such an exciting career, with his impeccable grades and his amazing references, and he was going to be so very successful! Fresh out of university, and he already had the opportunity to do such important work!

(Haha. Hahahaha. _Hah._ )

He’d poured all of that vibrating _keenness_ into projects that became… increasingly more and more dubious. Oh, it’d started innocently enough, him following his initial plan of  researching how to repair souls both human and monster, but increasingly he found his talents assigned to more and more… discreet pursuits. The experiments became more direct, with actual _live specimens_ being delivered to his lab - and, well, of course when he asked Assistant #7 (as her name-badge read) where they’d come from, she said something vaguely cold-yet-reassuring... as she was wont to do.

_(“It’s nothing you need to be concerned about, Doctor; the Crown has many kind benefactors. Consider it similar to an organ donation.”)_

It had placated him, and he’d continued, filling thick volumes to the brim with analysis. Isolation, enhancement - due to the stability of the human soul, alterations could be made. Certain traits could be brought forth, condensed, and made far, far more powerful than they every would be in nature. By chance, he’d found some odd reports in the archives that described other such experiments - and after he’d gotten over the horror at how _brutal_ the trials were - _(Stiching together children’s souls? Really? It was so crude and barbaric that it made his gut turn!) -_ he’d been brimming with ideas. Possibilities.

Assistant #7 had helped ease his worries, in her typically passive manner. _(“That was one of our old scientists, Doctor Gaster. He was dismissed, and his work never put into practice.”)_

He’d believed her readily. It was fine if it was in the past, right? It wasn’t like he was doing anything so _crude,_ and, goodness, those documents proved his ideas were sound. In fact - there was a fascinating addendum that gave him an idea - could a soul, perhaps, be used as… a _power source?_ There was so much energy brimming in those crystalline bodies, after all, teeming in all of those fine little bonds keeping the magic together.

...It was fair to say, at that point, he’d gotten carried away. When no one else around him treated the things floating in those glass containers like _people…_

Well… it was easy for him to forget, too.

_(“There’s no need to be sentimental, Doctor Gaster. Would you have us refrain from dissecting corpses out of respect for the dead? It’s a similar idea here.”)_

That nervous buzzing inside of his heart had gotten a little louder once the order came down that he was to weaponize his research, hadn’t it? To see if the power of the soul could be used to make a bomb.

Oh, but he’d built it anyway, hadn’t he? He’d pushed that fear down. He’d come so far already, after all. He’d done so much work. Experiment after experiment, discovery after discovery, each time hoping that, oh, perhaps this work would be used to help people? He could think of all the medical uses, after all, the more one understood the soul, the more one could repair it when it was damaged -

But, hah. Look.

Look at what it had all lead to.

Doctor W. D. Gaster stared at the report on his desk, his breathing going a bit funny as he turned the pages.

“Enemy casualties were massive,” her voice was absent, as always. “The opposing army at Crestone was almost entirely eliminated, and the spiders have already declared their surrender. We have, thanks to your work, won the war, with limited casualties on our side.”

“Twenty - twenty thousand estimated civillians,” he managed to keep his voice at only a _moderate_ warble. “And we bombed our own _men._ ”

He could hear the shifting of fabric that indicated a shrug. “Unimportant, in the grand scheme of things. Many were old constructs that were already being scheduled for decommission. Their loss will not be noticed; the others will be noted and memorialized.”

“How can you - “ he rounded on Assistant #7, the righteous anger building in him fanned further by her completely cold expression. “How can you _say_ that? People are _dead!_ ”

It would have been less eerie if she had tilted her head, changed the tone of her voice, _anything_ to indicate some emotion in that human looking body. “You made a bomb, Doctor Gaster. What did you assume it was going to be used for?”

“I - “ That cut him short. “I didn’t…”

“Think?” That word cut him to the core. “I am uncertain why this matter in particular is troubling to you.”

“Because - those were _lives!_ I didn’t - I wanted to _help people!_ Not kill them!”

“I suggest you keep your voice down, Doctor Gaster. It would be very unfortunate for you if your reservations were overheard.”

He recoiled slightly from the woman in front of him, pressing against the desk as he looked down at her. She was a short, with particularly light blonde hair and rather puzzlingly green eyes that indicated that she wasn’t… _quite…_ human. Although, honestly, from her behavior, it would be hard to make that mistake at all.

Something stopped him short as he opened his mouth to speak. It was a small detail, easily missed in the situation - lost in the wave of her otherwise pristine, icy demeanor. But - once he noticed it, it stuck out to him, like a splinter, perhaps, or a small rock in his shoe.

Her fist was tightly clenched at her side, and, from her palm, a single droplet of blood slipped onto the floor.

“Are… you alright?” He asked, his tone gentling as he reached out to take her injured hand.

She flinched violently away from his touch, taking a full step back from him. For a moment, that expression of perfect calmness broke, as her mouth twisted in hostility. “Your attempt to nullify your own guilt through cheap displays of concern is shameful; it is like a rich man treating his servants like dirt and assuaging his conscience by giving a single penny to a beggar. Do not use me in such a facile mockery of generosity.”

Gaster stared at her, his hand hovering in the air as he remained frozen. Then. “So, you _do_ think what I did was wrong.”

The conversation had, apparently, become a tennis match of stunned silences, considering how she stared at him in return. “Congratulations on focusing on the least important detail of what I just said.”

“I mean.” There was something odd about Gaster’s voice - a sort of odd tightness to it that bordered on hysterical, yet, it was shoved down deep, hidden under the mask of a man who was pretending to still be functioning. “I’d say it’s pretty important, isn’t it? Just before you were telling me how you didn’t care. You - you actually...”

“I am a construct, Doctor Gaster, my opinions - should I even have them - are not worth expressing. I act as I am instructed to, and I repeat the edicts of those who actually matter.”

"What are you talking about?" He said. "You - you have feelings. Don’t you? Your soul might be artificial, but it's still very capable of producing emotion - "

"You've misinterpreted what I said, Doctor Gaster." For a brief moment, she glanced at her palm, and he got a glimpse of the marks there - sharp, red wounds where she'd cut into the flesh with her nails. "Artificial things are less valuable than the genuine article. Have you truly never realized?"

Gaster's gaze flicked down to the small name-badge on her chest. Or - no. It wasn't a name-badge, was it? It simply listed her title, much like his own placard that read in its simple, blocky font -  _royal scientist._ He'd never thought it odd; they'd both matched. But. Had he ever...?

“Assistant,” he managed, after a long period of empty silence. “What’s… what’s your name?”

Weirdly enough, Gaster probably would have felt better if she’d at least looked disgusted, instead of that expression of horrifying neutrality. “Number seven,” she replied, and it would have been easy to leave the room at just that, but - no, she stopped, hand lingering on the doorway as she looked back at the man she’d just emotionally devastated.

“Evil might be born from greed and cruelty, Doctor Gaster, but stupidity is the fertilizer that allows it to grow. You should remember to know your place, as I know mine. Don't pretend to be something you're not."

After quite some time of nigh-catatonic staring, Doctor W. D. Gaster decided that he didn’t even want to be a scientist anymore.

 

* * *

 

He walked briskly through streets stained purple by the dim evening light, doing his best to keep his breathing calm, even, and steady as he relentlessly pursued his goal - _freedom._ Though, to be honest, he was somewhat winging the whole endeavor. He’d been choked by a noose woven from his own panic, and it had left him blind and unable to think.

Gaster could only walk, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the castle looming on the peak of the mountain, praying that no one noticed his forged excuse until it was too late.

Although - honestly… perhaps he didn’t even care if the guard caught him at this point. No matter what punishment they doled out… didn’t he deserve it?

He’d been so _blind._ Assistant #7 - _(how the hell hadn’t he realized how fucked up that was?) -_ had been completely and entirely right.

The former-Doctor W. D. Gaster had been willfully blind about the nature of his work, because it had been easier for him to do so than to accept what he was doing at the king’s behest.

The air stuttered in his throat as he stopped to catch his breath. He’d been walking non stop for hours, now, carrying a small bag filled with only the most necessary of possessions. Everything else he’d left behind, thinking that, perhaps, it would throw the other staff off his trail for awhile. Taking everything would have certainly been suspicious. Though…

Looking around him at the gloomy streets, he was starting to regret having not brought a map, at least. He didn’t have long to contemplate how lost he was, however… because, at that moment, someone took notice him.

“What th’fuck’s a ponce like _you_ doin’ down here, eh?” slurred a voice from near his right. Gaster turned sharply, stepping back and holding his bag closer to his chest. He was a rough looking man, face flushed with drink and indignation - and, quite immediately, Gaster felt his heart go cold.

“I, uh, I -- “ He stuttered, taking another few steps backwards away from the confrontation, noticing that the man had _companions._ “I, ah, I do not wish for trouble - “

“Ayy, lookit that! Says he doesn’t want _trouble!_ ” His aggressor advanced, and, belatedly, Gaster realized that he’d made a very, very poor choice regarding his direction of retreat.

He was being cornered into an alley.

“Bet his coat’s worth more’n you make in a year,” chimed in someone from the shadows near the alley’s mouth.

“Come to admire the _local color,_ have you? Where the hell’s yer entourage, eh? Don’t you shit pricks have _servants_ shinin’ your shoes and dustin’ your asses?”

“Um,” Gaster tried again, squeezing his bag tighter to his chest as he continued to pray they’d get bored. “I -- I don’t, I’m not, I’m not really…”

“Hah! All that damn education, an’ you can’t even give a nice man a friendly reply?” Came a third voice, and Gaster realized that this was, quite possibly, the worst day of his life.

“I’m really, really not looking for trouble, honest…”

“Yeah, neither were _we_ , but we certainly got fuckin’ trouble when you _shitstains_ stole our children and shipped them off to war for -- fuck, what was it, Jeb?”

“Silk,” came the second voice once more. Gaster could see him a little more clearly, now - he was a tall, doglike monster with matted fur and a rough gouge in his ear. “More specific-like, the price of it.”

A finger collided with Gaster’s chest and he retreated until he was flush against the wall. “ _Silk!_ My son is fuckin’ dead over _your gods-be-damned silk!_ ”

“I’m - I’m so sorry for your loss, but I had nothing to do with - “ Gaster paused. Hah. What if he did? What if it had been _his work_ that had slain this man’s son?

 _(Probably not, actually,_ said a coldly analytical voice from the back of his mind. _More likely, he died in that massacre around Argiope. You know, one of the reasons why that bomb was used in the first place.)_

"Sorry?" The main in front of him hissed, looming over Gaster as he hunched backwards away from him. "Hear that, boys? He's  _fuckin'_ sorry!"

It was then that Gaster looked over the shoulder of the person who was, presumably, going to beat the ever-loving shit out of him - and he saw something quite strange.

The mouth of the alley was awash with brilliant, orange light.

“Uh,” he gaped, but didn’t really have time to react further before a vibrant flash of fire cut through the gathering. The flames formed limbs, a face, and with a glowing hand, the warmly hued shape grabbed the shoulder of Gaster's assailant, heaving him back and giving the ex-scientist room to breathe.

Gaster was still terrified, of course - but that fear was now mixed with equal parts fascination.

“G-Grillby!” The man backed up after being thrown, putting his hands up as he retreated away from the elemental. “H-Hey, uh, we was just - y’know, givin’ him a bit of a hard time, nothin’ big, uh - “

Gaster watched “Grillby’s” fire reached a crescendo, roaring up in a fierce crackle of anger. He didn’t speak, but he gestured widely, in a gesture universally interpretable as _get out of here._

Without saying a word, the monster-presumably-named-Jeb grabbed the other parts of the trio and yanked them back down the alley, forcing the three into a tactical retreat. They hurried off, their footsteps fading into the distance... and it was just the two of them now, in that dark, dingy alley.

Gaster breathed heavily, trembling against the wall as he stared at the sharp, black fabric of his savior’s waistcoat. “Um,” he managed, fingers buried in the fabric of the bag that contained everything he now owned in the entire world. “Um, ah. Thank. Thank you, um…”

Slowly, the man turned, and Gaster was struck dumb by what he saw. 

"Are you alright?" He said softly, and Gaster couldn't reply. In the purplish light of the dimming evening… truly, he was looking at an angel made of fire.


	4. Smoke and Fire Part 2

Gaster’s hands couldn’t stop shaking, and it was with some gratitude that he accepted the offer of a drink or two. Or five, it turned out, and that was where he stopped, because Grillby wasn’t in the business of giving a sobbing man more alcohol.

Things had started well enough - or... as well as things could be, considering that he’d just been miraculously delivered from an attempted alley robbery. They’d exchanged names, and the former scientist had learned a few things about his savior. For example, he was a bartender, and had just been closing up for the evening when he’d noticed a commotion in the nearby alley.

“You were closing?” Gaster asked, for it seemed uncommonly early for a bar to shut its doors, and Grillby patiently explained that the king had just enforced a curfew on the lower city.

Calling the situation  _ bad _ was a… bit of an understatement. Grillby was running the bar alone, now - all his other staff had fled the city, seeking safety in the countryside. Gaster’s encounter was hardly a localized incident, and crime of every variety had increased drastically. Looting, robbery, confrontations with the guard... tensions were high and it was just a matter of time before things  _ popped. _

“Aren’t you going to leave?” Gaster asked, his speech far less restrained after his second glass of scotch. “That sounds  _ awful. _ ”

Grillby shrugged in a way that indicated he didn’t particularly care. Perhaps he was stubborn - or… perhaps he didn’t think he had anything to worry about. Gaster didn’t inquire further on that line of conversation, for he was more concerned about… other things. “What’s wrong? Why’d things get bad in the first place?” 

The answer to that was very, very simple. “Because everyone is furious with the king.”

Gaster understood. He kind of hated King Dreemurr, himself.

Fucker.

(He took another drink.)

The conversation dipped and wove across many topics, with Gaster’s expressions of abject thanks dotted among them. It was, in some ways, an embarrassing display - Gaster kept reaching over and clasping those warm hands between his cold, delicate bones - but Grillby didn’t mind, nor did he care that it was Gaster who kept things going. Grillby was a quiet man by nature and, when drunk, the good (former) doctor was… not, chattering well into the evening about this and that.

Perhaps it was because Gaster couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a  _ casual conversation, _ and he was starved for everything they brought. Touch, affection, companionship - there’d been no relationship in that  _ awful lab _ that didn’t have vaguely unsettling undertones, and he’d been trapped there for so, so long.

(Vaguely, he wondered how Assistant #7 was doing. Now that he thought about it, hadn’t she been acting  _ very _ strangely…?)

Perhaps that was how it started, really - that small seed of a thought, fed by intoxication until it bloomed into reminiscence. The conversation lulled as he replayed the events of the afternoon over-and-over again in his mind - the silent hatred burning in her eyes, that sharp condemnation as she mocked him for his petty hypocrisy… and it was all true, wasn’t it? Doctor W. D. Gaster had genuinely thought of himself as a good person, but he’d protected himself through blind ignorance. She’d been terrified, hadn’t she? When he’d tried to touch her?

What the  _ fuck _ had been going on right under his nose?

The souls - the experiments -  _ the bomb… _

Just how much evil was he responsible for?

The tears bubbled then, dripping down his cheeks in fat, oily droplets. They struck the table, the lamplight giving them a faint, iridescent purple sheen, and he buried his face in his awful, ugly hands. “I’m disgusting,” he wept, the words broken up by messy hiccups. “Oh, delta, I’m so awful, you should have left me to those men, I -  _ I deserved it. _ ”

Quietly, with patience and a considerable lack of surprise, Grillby reached out and pulled Gaster’s hands away from his face, cupping them gently between his fingers. _Look at me,_ the gesture seemed to say, but Gaster couldn’t bear to. 

“You’re so  _ nice,”  _ he stuttered, coaxed into saying more by the way Grillby was rubbing his thumbs around the shattered holes in his palms. “You’re so nice, s-so nice, I didn’t, I didn’t think people this nice existed o-outside of books…”

“What happened?” Grillby crackled softly, pressing for more information. “...What were you running from?”

(He wasn’t a stupid man. In the current climate, there were only two reasons why a man like him would dare venture into the lower city, and Gaster hated himself far too much to be a thrill-seeker.)

“I-I, I-... I… did… Oh, oh  _ mother, _ they’re going to kill me. I’m going to die. I deserve it; I  _ should _ die. Twenty thousand!” He wailed, a tear dripping off of his chin and plopping onto the back of Grillby’s hand. It sizzled lightly. “Twenty thousand people… and who kn, knows how many other luh-lives I ruined…”

“Who are…  _ they?” _ he asked, and, much like a man carefully rolling up a skein of thread, Grillby eased the story out of him.

Gaster was very lucky that night. Yes, it was a disjointed tale... vague and hard to decipher, with plenty of pauses and even more dips melancholic self-flagellation, but even an illiterate bar-rat could understand what it all meant put together…

And Grillby was anything  _ but  _ that.

It would have been easy to sell this man back to the king - or, more likely, those directly serving underneath him - for quite a handsome reward. It wouldn’t have made him as wealthy as the fat hens up at the peak of the mountain, but it would have been a start enough to buy property in one of the better districts and move up a little in the world…  _ literally. _ He already had him drunk; there was no way he could put up anything approaching a fight. For a man willing to cut corners in regards to his morals, Gaster - and his sob story - would have been akin to the golden egg of prosperity.

But Grillby was anything but that, too, and, as he watched Gaster cry himself into something like sleep, he knew he had to help this helpless idiot.

It didn’t seem like anyone else  _ had _ in a damn long time.

One hand was thoroughly trapped between Gaster’s fingers, and Grillby lulled the man further to sleep with the other, gently running his fingertips across the smooth bone of his scalp. It was all completely professional, Grillby told himself, watching him in the dim, flickering orange light. He was offering a kindness, that was all - of comfort, of safety, all for a monster who had been ruined by a regime that cared little for those underneath its thumb. 

Doing this wasn’t strange in the slightest.

Grillby was well accustomed to listening to the tell-tale signs of a man falling fully into the grips of slumber. Fingers going slack, soft, muted breathing, a gradual relaxation of the shoulders... and he gave it a few more minutes before he stood, just in case he was a light sleeper. (Doubtful, really, he was  _ trashed -  _ another reason why Grillby needed to help this poor man; he was so stupidly trusting.)

Though Gaster was much taller than he was, Grillby had no trouble easing him to the bed. He was a strong man, used to hauling boxes and barrels - though, truthfully, he was nothing compared to that mysterious stranger who’d shot through his life a few weeks prior before fading into stardust and - damn, he’d told himself to stop thinking about it.

Sighing, Grillby began his work. With sharp, precise, and, most importantly, _clinical_ movements, he stripped him of his clothes - jacket, shirt, shoes, socks, pants… and he paused at his boxers, feeling a bit of shame at doing this, but - no.

It had to be convincing. He’d hate for the ruse to be spoiled because of damnably foolish  _ embarrassment. _

He folded the outfit, setting it aside on the table before rummaging around in his closet. He had to give Gaster  _ something _ to wear, at least, lest the man get the wrong impression when he awoke. He dressed him in that same cold, professional manner, and, once his work was finished, Grillby rolled the man on his side, grabbed his belongings … and slipped into the hallway, quietly shutting the door behind him.

He’d put on his cape, of course, and dimmed the fire of his body just like he’d been trained to when he was young. Some lessons were never forgotten, no matter how long the years had been… which was a boon, that night, because there was the tricky little issue of the  _ curfew  _ to navigate.

Truly, Gaster was far luckier than he had any reason to be, but not only had he found a sympathetic soul that night…

...but he’d also found one with the knowledge of how to fake a death, and a few favors to call in, besides.

By the time morning rolled around, there was a pile of fresh dust blown across a dingy, dirty street, and a few mundane objects had been haphazardly shoved in a nearby barrel. A diary,  the remnants of a collection of pressed flowers, a monogrammed pocket watch... things either too mundane or too dangerous to sell that - coincidentally, of course - identified the nearby remains. 

With a little  _ string pulling _ , Grillby arranged it so that a sweet old lady just happened to hear a commotion late last night and, good-golly, when she peeped through the window, who did she spot but a group of men whose descriptions matched that of the  _ Cuttle-Street Cutters _ scuttling away from the crime scene. And, why… it just so happened that a few pieces of dusty clothing had been planted in their typical hideout. Funny how the world works.

Everything else, he carefully pawned off, and by mid-afternoon the next day, it all would have changed hands so many times that it would be nigh-untraceable by the guards… but there it’d be, floating around, the remnants of a man who couldn’t possibly be alive.

The papers were the next bit, and by the breaking of the dawn Grillby had bullied a counterfeiter of his acquaintance into cooking up something.  _ You owe me, _ Grillby he’d said quietly, and when Grillby said anything in those parts, it held weight. In a few days, Gaster would have fake identification… and he could do whatever he pleased with it.

In a single night of work, Grillby the Bartender had killed the former Doctor W. D. Gaster… and a now nameless man slept in his bed, innocently oblivious to the kindness he’d just been dealt. In the morning, he’d be woken up, offered water and food and, most importantly, a choice - of what to do, where to go…

And of how he wanted to spend his newly acquired life.


	5. Steel and Smoke

Grillby’s offer had been presented as such: he could leave, and try to make it by himself in the world outside the city, or… he could stay in Home, so long as he kept himself to the lower districts and never again tried to reclaim his earlier fame. Grillby could only do so much to erase him - his face was the same, after all, and it would just take one person becoming suspicious to destroy everything he’d worked to build.

The Former Doctor W. D. Gaster didn’t mind in the least. He wanted to disappear. He wanted to leave everything about his previous life behind.

No more would he dive into the depths of obscurity, no more would he work as a scientist. Never, ever again would he allow himself to become something so terrible, never again would he allow himself to be so oblivious. However… it was impossible to deny that so much of his life _had_ been dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. He’d put so much effort into cultivating his skills as a researcher that, now, with that taken from him… he genuinely had no idea what to do with himself.

It was - with that mindset - that he accepted Grillby’s offer of a job.

Honestly, it was reasonable. Grillby had recently lost his waitress and was, quite honestly, Gaster’s only friend in the world. Of course the man would cling to the light of his salvation, and… well, it allowed Grillby to keep an eye on the idiot, since he’d probably get himself killed if he wandered outside the city.

...To be frank, it was harrowing enough trying to keep him from getting killed _while_ he was safely in Grillby’s vicinity. The idea of him navigating a winding network of bandits, raiders, and poorly marked roadways was genuinely upsetting, so it served them both nicely when Grillby brought Gaster into his staff, and Gaster learned the time-honored trade of customer service.

For a time, he was very happy. Sure, it wasn’t… exactly… a luxurious job - he spent a lot of time cleaning, doing laundry, and serving drinks - but Grillby was a wonderful boss who was quick to express his extreme disapproval when anyone smacked Gaster’s butt as he went by. Within a month, everyone around the neighborhood knew if you fucked with Gaster, you fucked with Grillby, and you _did not want to fuck with Grillby._

So - while he didn’t exactly… fit in with the rough manner of Grillby’s typical client, Gaster was kept safe from them - and, eventually, he found some camaraderie among the regulars both human and monster alike. He wasn’t very good at his job, sure, and often made mistakes, but he was earnest, genuine, and haplessly endearing, which somehow earned him a special place in the hearts of the bar's visitors.

It helped that he was pretty cute and had taken to wearing a frilly apron.

This life was more than he could ever have hoped of achieving. It - in its simplicity - was the warmest thing he’d ever felt since those long, long ago days when his parents still lived and things in his household were alright.

So - knowing that - and knowing that even when things were hard, even when he had nightmares sometimes, and even when he cried - knowing that he’d found a home, a job, and a person who cared about him…

Did that make it hurt less to know that, after a few months of that, he was going to die?

It happened in the middle of the night, and, honestly, they should have expected it. The tense silence that had fallen over the town, the dark shadows haunting the eyes of people who had once been cheerful - the mobs, the protests, the riots that the guards had to break up with steel in their mouths and swords in their hands…

Revolution was coming, and such things were never peaceful. They should have gotten _out._

Was it arrogance? Was it pride? Or was it a simple inability to let go of everything that he’d built? Most of Grillby’s money was in his property, after all, and there was absolutely no way he would have been able to have sell it for a fair price considering the current atmosphere. And, if he’d left, looters would have overtaken it, ransacking the building and destroying everything of value. It had already happened to other stores down the street, and Grillby’s influence would quickly fade once he left.

He’d thought they’d be safe. Genuinely, honestly - he thought that, just by being quiet, just by staying _out of it_ , they could ride out the conflict and emerge (relatively) unharmed on the other side.

Gaster had trusted his judgement, of course. Why wouldn’t he? Grillby had never lead him astray. Unfortunately, they would both pay the price for Grillby’s lack of caution, as their street was one of the first to be claimed by the vibrant inferno that consumed their district, North of Home, on that fateful night.

Grillby awoke first, being a far more uneasy sleeper than anyone else in the building, though he did not, at first, realize what was amiss. The smell of smoke didn’t ellicit immediate feelings of panic in him, and why would it? He’d grown up around the smell, bathed in it - in fact, charring wood and crackling fire was comforting to him, and that brewing scent almost lulled him back to sleep before he realized that, wait.

No.

That wasn’t right.

He threw himself out of bed, not bothering with unncesessary things like _shoes_ or _shirts._ Heaving the door open, he sprinted down the hall, and he felt it before he heard it: the roaring crackle, the splintering of beams, and the great, smokey haze filling the entirety of the second floor.

Oh _fuck._

The front of the bar had been completely consumed by fire.

Covering his mouth with his sleeve, he ran to Gaster’s room first, knocking briefly before he realized  _this is_ _stupid_ and slammed the door in. Honestly, he should have shouted, screamed _fire_ and alerted everyone to the danger, but -

Well.

He was running on instict, now, and instinct said _not to speak._

“Grillby…?” With a slur, Gaster awoke and sat up slowly - something he had absolutely no time for, as Grillby grabbed onto his arm and heaved him out from underneath the blankets.

“Go,” he hissed, pointing out the door. “Downstairs, through the kitchen.”

It took Gaster a moment for this to really sink in, but with a snap he realized there was trouble. Breaking away from Grillby, he sprinted, not really quite understanding what was going on but knowing that he needed to listen anyway.

Honestly, before he stepped outside into the smoky hall, he’d thought that the guards had come from him. But - hacking and coughing - he realized that, no. That wasn’t the problem, and - simultaneously - something else struck him.

“The guests!” He half turned to Grillby, even as the bartender started shoving him down to the second set of stairs. _Get out_ , the gesture said, _get out, save yourself before it’s too late,_ but, you know, fuck that, he knew what Grillby intended and he knew that he wasn’t going to let him do it alone.

“Wake up! Fire! Everyone up, FIRE!” he shouted, and devolved into a cough soon after. Shoving past Grillby, he banged his fist on the next door down - a mother with a child who’d come to stay with them after her house and her husband had been claimed by the crown for treason. “WAKE UP NOW!”

Grillby watched, horrified fear causing the fire on his head to jump in erratic bursts, but - but… he knew Gaster, and as much as he wished he’d just leave, get to _safety…._

He knew that he wouldn’t, and he knew that him taking care of getting everyone else to safety would allow him to go downstairs and try to control the blaze.

It’s hard to say whether or not he’d have chosen differently if he’d known - because what else was there to choose? The only reason why Gaster had enough time to get everyone out through the unburned parts of the building was because of Grillby’s desperate efforts to control the disaster down below, but even a fire elemental is not immune to fire. Consider it to be like two competing forces, where eventually one wins out and the stronger overtakes the weaker. Such was the case for Grillby as part of the roof caved in, trapping him under shingles and heavy rafters, and the fire began to eat at him, dissolving his consciousness as it raged across the bar.

His precious, precious bar.

Of course Gaster went back in once he’d made sure everyone else had gotten out safely. How could he not check on Grillby? He’d promised himself, after all, he _promised_ that he wouldn’t be the disgustingly passive man he once had been… and, further, Grillby was his saivor. That debt had never been repaid, not really.

So of course - when Gaster, coughing and hacking, saw Grillby’s body among the flames, pinned to the ground as he was rendered immobile…

Well.

There was nothing he could do but try to help. It was just who he was. It was just who they both were. Even if they’d known the consequence for their choices that night would be death, they still would have made them anyway, because…

That’s just who they were.

But…

Fortunately for them all, you were you, and you said  _fuck all of that gods-be-damned bullshit._ It wasn't _right._

 

* * *

 

“TACTICIAN!” you shouted over the roar of footsteps behind you. “Someone’s set Whimsum Street on _fucking fire!”_

“What? Shit!” A voice said in your ear. Or - more accurately, it reverberated from a pomegranate-sized seed attached to a wire woven around your earlobe. “I’ll see if I can round up a bucket-brigade. Stay on course; I need you and your men at the gate in ten minutes.”

You grumbled inaudibly, sparing a passing glance at the smoke curling up into the sky. And, you would left it be, obeying Many-Names' orders - had it not been for a small group of bystanders clustered together on the street.

“Please, help!” one shouted, the loud wailing of a child a backdrop to her plea. “The innkeep hasn’t come out yet!”

You hesitated then, stopping in the middle of the street. The soldiers - if they could even be called that, since they were a ragtag group without uniform or unifying banner - fanned out behind you. The only thing that linked you all - the only way any of you could identify the other members of your revolution - was the clump of buttercups pinned to each of your chests.

“Where?” you asked, your voice a firm clip, and Many-Names immediately whined in your ear.

“Aegis! No! _You’re needed elsewhere!”_

“T-There!” A man pointed to a building that might have once been a bar - and you turned on your heel, looking back to address the gathering behind you.

“Thom,” you instructed, voice sharp. “If I’m not out in three minutes, you’re in charge. Prim, Scarecrow, stay behind and start controlling the fire. Once we’ve left, start making a _fucking lot of noise_ \- got it?”

“Yessir!” came three replies, and without any further pause, you strode forward, heaving the debris blocking the doorway aside. Having only one arm didn’t mean so much when you could lift more than ten men combined with it.

“Thom doesn’t have a communicator, you twit! None of them really know how to set explosives! _We need you, don’t do this to me!”_

“Fuck off.” You could barely see through the heat haze, and you felt an ugly curl of panic as a memory of another place and other time hit you, but you persevered, telling yourself you'd have time to cry about it later. “Hello! Can any'a cumquat kissin' shitheads hear me? HELLO?”

At first, you didn’t get any reply, and you hesitated before stepping fully into room. The roar of the flames was overbearing, and sweat prickled at your brow and slid down your neck in ugly, rotten puddles. This was stupid, you realized, no one could still be alive in here -

“Help!” a weak voice called from near the stairs. “Please, please help!”

Well, boil your garters and call you a turnip.

You surged forward, taking the most direct path to to the sound, i. e. through a table and a few burning chairs that you annihilated with a well placed smash. The fact that they were all _on fire_ only gave you momentary pause - you were, quite honestly, mostly fireproof.

Key word there, _mostly._

“Keep shoutin’, where are you?” It was hard to see through the smoke and the haze, and all the debris didn’t help matters much, either. “Hey, whoever you are, stay awake!”

“Over here!” the words trailed off into an ugly, hacking cough, and, after a few more steps, you saw him.

He had part of a huge section of wood on his shoulder, which he was trying - in vain - to force upwards. It seemed pointless, at first, until you shielded your eyes and peered to get a look at the details, and you noticed there was a person, there, painted orange and red and fading, there, on the floor.

holyfuckingshit

You _remembered_ this bar.

“Move!” You shouted, grabbing hold of one end of the beam. You shoved the other man - slender, with a pretty face stained black by the goop he’d coughed up - and lifted, heaving it up with a great creak of timber. “Pull him out!”

Gasping for breath and clearly not used to such exertions, the man hooked his arms underneath the bartender’s - (Grillby, some distant part of you supplied) - sliding him out and pleading with him all the while. “Please, say something, anything, please be okay _please --_ “

“Save your breath!” You commanded, letting go and backing away from the char and splinters. The heat was unquenchable, drowning you and filling your lungs with char and ash - and you wheezed a bit as you stomped over to the pair. “Get up, I’ve cleared the entrance, you - “

A great crack interrupted you, an you looked up to see something that was, quite genuinely, horrifying.

 _“Fuck!”_ you swore loudly, the sound drowned out as the rest of the second floor collapsed, sending a cascade of burning planks down to meet your little group. Being at least ninty-five percent sure that this would kill the pair of them, you stepped in once more, using your own body as a shield as you put yourself inbetween them and certain death.

It was then that - for the first time - Gaster really, truly _saw_ you.

Your hair was a mess, the braid you’d bound it in thoroughly touseld from all of the running, jumping, and general athletic activity you’d had to accomplish over the course of the night. It stuck to your sweat stricken face, shining in the firelight - and it framed those eyes of you, fiercly gold and narrowed in concentration as you kept him from being crushed by a huge swath of burning ceiling. With your back bent, curved in exertion, you looked like you had the world on your shoulders - and, in a way, you did.

You - with your one arm and your heart full of steadfast determination - were supporting both the crumbling remains of their livelihood and, at the same time, were protecting what was left of their souls.

It was breathtaking. Your crimson cape, the glint of your hair, the way you snarled as you fought back against their death - the handsomeness of your features, your armor - you were a knight, a _true and just hero_ , and, gods, to see you there, to see you towering above him…

Was like nothing he’d ever dreamed of.

And your voice -

“RUN, YOU FUCKING IDIOT! _RUN!”_

\- was the light of his world.

He would obey you without question, without any further hesitation, and he would _live._

Summoning some previously hidden reservoir of strength, he heaved Grillby up, slinging the man over his shoulder as he navigated his way past a forest of burning furniture. It was hard, now, with so much smoke clogging the air and so much fallen wreckage - but somehow, he felt that he could do it because you were there, holding up part of the building and - and somehow, having seen you made him feel like _he_ could do _anything._

It also helped that there was someone at the doorway now, a hazy figure shouting directions at him.

“To your left! Good! Keep going now, you’re almost out! Just a little farther now! HURRY!”

Never had he been happier to feel the cool night air on his skin. Never had he been happier to be submerged in a crowd of people, his clothes patted roughly as the group put the fire overtaking his coat out. Never had he been happier to be charred and singed, because he knew that feeling pain meant he was _alive,_ he was alive, by the rune, he thought he’d been going to die.

He’d thought they were both going to die.

(But he felt Grillby’s gentle warmth on his skin - felt him solid and whole - and he found the strength to _hope_ they’d be okay.)

Something nagged at him though, and - even as he was pulled away by the crowd - he half-turned, looking back at the burning remnants of the bar.

Where…

Where were you?

Breath catching in his throat, it seemed like the entire world dulled and went quiet.

_Where were you?_

“...Shit,” he heard someone murmur nearby, underneath all of the other commotion. People ran down the street, knocking on doors - someone had taken Grillby from him and was checking over him - and those words took the air completely out of him. “Looks like we’re leavin’ ‘em behind.”

“Wh-what?” Gaster desperately clawed his way towards the direction of the voice. “Wait, you’ve -- you’ve got to go in after them! Someone has to - they have to come _out - !”_

“If the Commander don’t come out by themselves, there ain’ nuttin’ any of _us_ can do to help,” came a voice from somewhere, and - after a ragged cough - Gaster had to find himself trying to bite back tears.

Something he’d never known he needed was being torn away from him.

It was then that he heard a resounding gasp, and a quick shout drew his attention to the flame-ridden doorway. “COMMANDER!”

If he thought you’d looked beautiful in the building, then seeing you, there, breastplate caked with ash and gauntlets glowing orange with the heat of the fire… 

Well. He pretty much lost himself, in that moment. If Grillby was an angel of fire, then you - you… you were a paragon of steel, unparalelled in your vibrant glory.

“Yeah, I read you,” he heard you say, cupping you hand around your ear as your men rushed to greet you. “We’re enroute now. Clover!” You announced, gesturing sharply to the vaguely lavender hued rabbit with buttercups twined around the hairtie keeping her ears out of her face. She looked up at the sound of her name, turning her attention away from Grillby who she’d laid gently upon the ground. “Stay here, assist with the wounded! Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” she replied, finishing it off with a sharp salute. And then - your frayed, burned cloak trailing behind you - you turned, somehow standing strong despite the face that you’d literally just climbed out of a burning building.

“The rest of you - move out! We’ve got a lot of work to do tonight!”

The footsteps advanced and then - as he watched, swaying slightly in the street - faded. And…

Gaster sunk to his knees beside Grillby. “Will he be alright?” he said, hollowed, desperate for that single answer, and the woman - Clover - looked at him.

“He’s going to need treatment. Are you well enough to help?"

Taking a deep breath in, Gaster nodded - and, though the night was going to be long and fraught with danger…

He could only think of that single encounter and pray.


	6. Reunion

This is not a story about what became known as the Buttercup Uprising, nor is it a story about Princess Toriel’s subsequent ascension to the throne. Though both events forever altered the city’s - no, the _country’s_ \- history, and thought you yourself had played a key role in deciding the revolution’s fate - while you were fighting? The ultimate outcome had meant nothing to you.

Even as you laid down your sword, even as you’d watched the former king’s banner burn in the dawning light - your heart had been filled with nothing but apathy.

No - what you remembered - what would forever affect your spirit - were those fleeting encounters, those brief, first impressions of two men who had completely and irrevocably changed your life. What they'd given you - from one, the dream of something else, and from the other, the feeling that you could be  _admired,_ could be a _hero -_ remained, burning in you and keeping you strong. In the end, it was those memories that mattered most to you, and that is what this story is about: salvation, unintended consequences... and love at first sight.

And, though you didn’t know it yet, this is also a story about first reunions, and how that soft, gentle smolder in your chest would lead you home.

 

* * *

 

 

They’d offered you a job, and you said no.

Well, actually, you’d said, “Fuck no, I’d rather eat a sack of frozen, raw lemons and then gargle hot sauce,” and also, “I’m sorry, your majesty, that was rude of me”, because even you weren’t suicidal enough to unapologetically swear in front of the Queen.

Thankfully, she’d practically died laughing instead of beheading you, which made you feel mildly better about the country’s prospects. Only mildly, though, she was probably going to get disposed of by someone else, and then you’d all be ruled by some other morally suspect power hungry megalomaniac.

Not that it mattered to you. Once your one request had been fulfilled, everything else would be background noise.

“Your mind is set, then,” Many-Names sighed, steepling their fingers in thoughtful dismay. They sat directly to the left of the Queen, mirrored by the new Captain of the Royal Guard, Undyne, who had her place at Toriel’s right. They were a strange trio to view together, but, somehow, their union was enough to overthrow a king, so you supposed it worked well enough.

Not that you were really one to judge on political matters.

“Oh, c’mon, I understand not wanting to work for that loser with their ~*spies*~ and their ~*secrecy*~ and their ~*By the Rune, Undyne, this is a covert operation stop SHOUTING*~, but I’d be a wicked cool boss! Sure, there’d probably be some explosions, but only consensual ones!” She grinned, bright and sharp, and Many-Names winced slightly.

Remaining firm, you shook your head, even as her expression fell. You were worn out. You were tired. Your body might not be that old, but your soul felt ancient, and you’d been ripped to shreds enough for one lifetime. You’d served enough, and now… “I want a trumpet, and maybe some money for food on occasion if you’re feeling generous. That’s all. No more wars, no more battles, no more killing.”

Levelling your gaze on the three of them, you insisted, “I’m done.”

“What are you even going to do with a trumpet?” Undyne whined, smacking her hands on the table in exasperation. The desperation with which she wanted you on her staff was unparalleled; she’d seen you punch through the castle doors, and had, since, begun to entertain a merry life with you as her second-in-command, bringing justice with your mighty fist.

You were not so keen, and - even still - your heart had been gripped by that single night of freedom, when you’d really felt music for what seemed like the first time in your life. “I’m going to play it.”

“You only have one arm!!”

“I’ll figure something out.” And, if not, well. At least…

At least you wouldn’t be hurting people anymore.

Undyne was about to say something more, and, perhaps Many-Names was going to chime in soon after, but Toriel raised her hand, silencing them both.

“That is an extremely simple request - and, for your profound service to the crown… I will grant it wholeheartedly. Aegis, you have done far more than anyone had any right to ask from you, and as long as I reign, you will have the entire country’s gratitude. I will ensure that you get the best trumpet that any craftsman in the city can fashion for you. And..” She hesitated then, peering at you. “If you are willing to undergo a procedure to implant it…”

“...I will pay for the cost of making you a new arm.

 

* * *

 

 

At first, you’d said no. It wasn’t necessary, you didn’t want it - or, rather, you didn’t want more people experimenting on and fucking around with your body. You’d had enough. You were done, and you weren’t going to be their guinea pig anymore. Who _they_ were, at this point, didn’t really matter - you were just so, so very tired of being a thing, a… a doll, a nebulous existance that _they_ could take and modify to their liking.

And, frankly, you still didn’t really trust the new queen.

It’d been Many-Names who’d eventually won you over. They still knew what buttons to press, what emotional levers to fiddle with until they’d finally solved the puzzle ball that was your heart. You kind of hated them for it, but you also knew that was just how they’d been made, how they’d been raised - and their continual insistence on only using their abilities for ‘good’ kept you from truly despising them and their uncanny power.

Truly, honestly - they worked so hard to give you back what you’d lost, what saving them and everyone else had taken from you. And - yes. It’d hurt like hell when those those nervous, anxious scientists had grafted metal to your flesh, attaching the nerves to strange, quasi-magical conduits that you couldn’t even begin to understand.

.But..

It'd been liberating, too, that moment when you flexed those metal fingers and thought, maybe I can actually do this. Maybe I can actually live.

You’d left the palace that day, trumpet case in hand and rucksack on your back, dressed like a common worker as had been your request. Ah, they could tell from your eyes that you were a construct, but until that flash of realization gave way to inexorable suspicion, you looked… just like any other person.

Well, aside from the experimental prosthetic and the horrible burns marring your body, but you could hide those. It wasn’t like the heat bothered you much; a life of long-sleeved shirts would suit you just fine.

Like that, you wandered.

Everything you owned, you carried on your back. Sometimes you slept in the park, sometimes you slept on the street - and, sometimes, you’d work for a day, and someone would offer to let you sleep on their couch for a night, and you'd sit on their porch as the light of the evening faded and toot on your trumpet, trying to make it sound as good as that foggy memory you’d heard so long ago.

It was during a night like that that your temporary landlord plopped down next to you on the steps and said, _hey, kid, leme teach you a thing or two._

That was how you learned, in bits and pieces given to you by the people you met and those whose lives you briefly touched. You found out where they gathered, those poor people who - after all the turmoil - had little but their instruments and a desire to keep living. Even though your metal fingers didn’t - _couldn’t_ \- move as quickly as theirs, couldn’t dance across the valves with the artistry that theirs did, you tried anyway. You played anyway. In bands, in shambled ensembles - you played on street corners, under bridges, in alleys and, on occasion, with the people whose doors occasionally opened for you. You made friends there, with people just as shitty and poor and tired as you were.

Oh, were they suspicious? Did many turn you away simply for being… you? Of course. You were a fake person, and they knew that well - but somehow, sometimes, music bridged the gaps between you all, and you found something like happiness in that life.

On a whim - or maybe a hope? You visisted Whimsum Street once, not really sure what you’d find, but, somehow being disappointed regardless that the bar wasn’t there anymore, and that all was left were the burned shells of structures that had once been buildings. Vaguely, you wondered where they were now - if they were safe, if they were happy - but you put the thought out of your mind.

They’d done enough for you just by existing. There was no need to darken their doorstep with your presence. Two men you didn’t even know... just knowing they’d lived through that night made you a little happier.

Knowing that you had enough power to save their lives gave you a little more hope.

A few months of that had made you a decent player, and you had enough confidence to recite solos on the street corner, hat out and ready to receive the occasional tip that was tossed your way. Though exposure couldn’t kill you and you didn’t really need a place to sleep, you could still starve to death, and the idea of further submitting yourself to the generosity of the crown filled you with a sick sort of dread.

If they got their hooks in you any further, they might even be able to convince you to work for them once more - and you’d do anything to prevent yourself from falling into that trap.

It was hard in the winter, sleeping under a bridge as the snow fell around you, but those who had little shared what little they had, and if you had a little more food to compensate, you could output a pretty fair amount of heat when you put your mind to it.

Not everyone survived, but there were some who did, and as winter melted into spring, you faced the new year.

As the flowers bloomed, you met them again.

You were performing alone that day, sweet, slow notes pouring out of the bell of your trumpet. Your hat, lined with coins and fashioned into a makeshift tip jar, sat at your feet, and you’d set yourself up by a curving, garden path very popular among couples. Sometimes, you paused to flirt or chat as gleaming, happy people went by on their dates, but sometimes you just played, letting yourself get lost in a smooth, brassy hum.

Maybe it was the music that drew them, or maybe they just saw you there, gleaming in the sun and the soft shadows of the rustling leaves. And maybe it took them a moment, or maybe they both recognized you instantly - who could say? It didn’t really matter how it came about, because lead to one ultimate conclusion - hurried, clipping steps striking the dirt path, and you opening your eyes to see them standing next to each other and staring at you in disbelieving shock.

  
The three of you stared at each other for a moment - the bartender who’d saved you, the waiter you’d saved, and you, the person they’d both made feel a little more human. It’s said that you shouldn’t judge a book by it's cover, but it’s hard to when your first impressions of each other were so overtly noble. The fact that you stuck in their hearts so thoroughly - and they, in yours - was testament to this, and that was the reason why the former Doctor W. D. Gaster had absolutely no qualms about throwing his arms around a perfect stranger.

(One who didn’t smell the greatest, at that.)

“It’s you!” he cried out, pulling your face to his shoulder. You froze, not really sure what to do about this strange, foreign form of contact, but he didn’t really give you much of a chance to react. “It’s you! You’re okay! We’d thought you -- I’m so glad!”

He pushed you back slightly, the crack of his mouth pulled up in a wide, honest smile. “I - I’m sorry, I don’t know if you remember me, but you saved me from burning to death! And Grillby, too, and -- and, thank you, thank you, I never thought I’d get to see you again…!”

With that, he was back to hugging you tightly. Your trumpet dangled at your side, suspended from your fingertips, and you stared over his shoulder, completely stunned by what was happening.

It was like a dream.

And - even more surreal were the slow, careful steps that Grillby took towards you, the fire on his head flickering in an odd way. The way he dipped his head to you, the recognition gleaming on the glass of those frames...

It was then that the man hugging you pulled back again, holding you at arm's length.

“You’re as thin as a weed! And, your hair -- how long has it been since you’ve had a bath? Oh, gosh, is that - that’s probably rude to say, I’m sorry, but -- ” He looked down at you, at your ratty clothes and your tattered hat, and that seemed to be enough to help him piece together your situation. “Come with us! We’ll get you something to eat, and - if you want, we can wash your clothes, and, jeez, I can fix that tear there no problem, I’ve gotten really good with a needle lately! And - wow, I can’t believe it’s… actually you…”

Gaster smiled helplessly, and it was then that Grillby finally spoke up, hands in his pockets and standing just a pace or two behind his companion. “Hello.”

“H-Hi,” you managed, staring at them both. “You… remember me?”

“Of course we do! You saved our lives! We always kind of hoped we’d figure out where you were, and we actually asked around a bit at the palace, but people kept acting funny when we brought you up and didn’t want to say anything, so - so we thought you’d…”

“We thought you’d gone somewhere else,” Grillby said simply, and you immediately realized that Many-Names had probably Strongly Encouraged people to keep quiet about you, so that you wouldn’t be bothered.

While you were thankful… “Y-You were… looking for me?”

“Of course we were! Why wouldn’t we be?”

“I -- “ you trailed off again, looking between the enthusiastic Gaster and the quietly flickering Grillby. “I didn’t really… think that…”

You hadn’t thought they’d remembered you like you’d remembered them.

“Would you like to talk over lunch?” Grillby asked, adjusting his glasses slightly on his face. “Our treat.”

“Please say yes! We owe the world to you - really!”

You swallowed, looking down at your muddy shoes and then up to them. They both looked hopeful, in their own way, and - even though you felt filthy, dirty, and like you didn’t even belong on the same street as them, much less the same table -

There was no way you could deny the hope in their faces, and so you nodded.

“Great!” Finally, Gaster released you, still smiling like the sun itself had been taken out of the sky and placed in his chest. “Oh, gosh, what kind of food do you like? I guess we could take you back to our place and make you something, but maybe we should take you out to eat? Or…”

With his chatter as a backdrop, you slowly began to pack up your trumpet, then shook the coins out of your hat and plopped it back on your head. You felt numb, overwhelmed - but it was, overall, a warm sort of feeling, like… you were touching the delicate petals of the first spring flower.

It was a feeling of disbelief, like seeing an aurora or watching the frost form on the window. Something delicate, something transient -

Something so overwhelmingly beautiful you could hardly bear it.

Grillby took you by the elbow as you stood there, gently encouraging you along. You followed, not really capable of doing anything else… and, though you didn’t know it then - they were about to take you someplace you never could have imagined.

Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking with me through this little story! It's a little rough, as I was trying to practice a different sort of narrative structure, but I'm glad it's entertained people anyway. <3 This chapter brings First Impressions to a close - but worry not! This isn't the last thing I'll do with this trio, or this setting. Actually, I've been drawing up a 12 page comic about these folks, the first 4 of which should be done pretty soon.
> 
> I have a tumblr at glitterbark.tumblr.com if you want to follow my general exploits, and I've got a lot of other Undertale fanfiction on this account if you like my writing.
> 
> Also, if you like my writing and want to support me, I'm now offering writing commisions! More information here. http://glitterbark.tumblr.com/post/145689624291/writing-commissions
> 
> (I also take donations if you, for some reason, want to throw money my way? It'll always be appreciated.)
> 
> Thank you for reading, everyone. It's been a pleasure.


End file.
